


Poorly

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Kidlock Oneshots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Brotherly Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, Redbeard - Freeform, Siblings, Unwell, Young Sherlock, guest starring Sherlock's baby blanket, poorly, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7823041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock feels unwell, and it's Mycroft he goes to for comfort</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poorly

Mycroft wasn’t sure if it was his door being shoved open across the carpet that woke him from his light sleep, or the way in which Sherlock had slapped him across the cheek with his ragtag blanket, but he found himself awake, aware that it was late, and looking into the eyes of his brother that shone back at him through the darkness, made to glisten by the light that streamed into the room through the still-open door from the landing light. He sat up and frowned sleepily at his little brother. 

“What is it?” He whispered, aware that if the two of them were caught awake at this hour, their mother would surely make them feel sorry for it in the morning in the form of an hour-long bemoaning of how she’d had enough sleepless nights when they were both infants. Affectionately, of course. But still… 

“Poorly.” Sherlock looked pathetically small as he rubbed his face with his baby cloth. Mycroft could make out his curly hair sticking out in odd ends and, as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, could smell the sour, sickly smell of vomit. 

Mycroft got to his feet and reached for the power button on his bedside lamp. The room was illuminated with a soft, yellow glow, and he regarded his four-year-old brother. Sherlock’s pyjama top was stained with vomit and his cheeks were burning pink. Mycroft wondered if what was down his top was merely a postcard and that, unfortunately, there was more to follow. He ushered Sherlock from his room with his hands on his back, shuffling him out into the hallway and across the landing, into the bathroom that was opposite their parent’s bedroom. 

He locked the bathroom door behind them as the light came on guided Sherlock over to the toilet. “Want to be sick again?” he asked and Sherlock shrugged at him, his eyes welling up with tears. “Well, does your belly hurt?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock nodded his head, his bottom lip quivering and pulling in as he began to cry. “That’s okay.” Mycroft pushed Sherlock’s hair away from his warm forehead. He left the lid of the toilet open and perched his bottom onto the low window sill beside it, resting his back on the frosted glass. “Just make sure you get it in the loo if you’re...yuck.” Mycroft winced back a little as Sherlock craned over the toilet bowl and vomited with a belch. 

Mycroft watched as Sherlock coughed his dinner and nighttime cup of hot chocolate into the toilet with dramatic sound effects. He found it partly amusing, though. Not that Sherlock was unwell, but his stance. The four-year-old stood, one hand on the toilet for balance, whilst the other was held out at his side, keeping his beloved blanket away from the offensive liquid. When Sherlock straightened up, seemingly satisfied that the nausea had subsided, and swallowed a few times, getting his breath back, Mycroft flushed the toilet and handed Sherlock a wad of toilet tissue to mop his mouth and nose dry. 

“There’s sick in my bed,” Sherlock told him, throwing the tissue into the loo. “I tried to get up faster but I couldn’t stop it coming out.” He frowned, clearly still not feeling well as no real colour, beyond his red cheeks, had been restored to his face and he looked like he might just throw up again. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Mycroft said gently, filling the beaker on the sink - usually reserved for mouthwash - will cool water from the tap. He handed it to Sherlock. “Just sips, don’t want you to be sick again.” He warned. “And don’t worry about your bed; I can strip the sheets off tonight and you can sleep in my bed.” 

After a single, nervous mouthful of water, Sherlock handed the cup back. “My tummy still hurts.” He hugged his blanket to his face.

“Take off your top.” Mycroft nodded toward him and helped Sherlock to slip out of the soiled garment. He dropped it into the laundry basket. “You’ve got a temperature, so you don’t have to put another top on. You can sleep like that.” He nodded at him. Sherlock’s big-boy-pants pull-up nappy (reserved only for bedtime, just in case) was visible out of the top of his pyjama bottoms waistband. “You’ll feel cooler.” Mycroft smiled. 

Sherlock hugged his blanket closer, curling the label between his thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “I want Mummy,” his bottom lip jutted and he belched again. Mycroft quickly turned him, hovering him over the toilet. He cringed as Sherlock heaved twice but brought nothing up. 

He rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock’s bare back. “It’s okay, Sherlock. You’ll feel better in the morning.” Mycroft reassured him with a soft voice. “Come on, we’ll get into my bed.” Mycroft held Sherlock’s hand and left the bathroom with him, clicking off the light as they stepped into the landing. Their movements had clearly disturbed somebody, as Mycroft and Sherlock walked straight into Redbeard, peering at them with large, sad eyes as they walked out onto the landing. 

“Re’beard.” Sherlock smiled at him and smooshed his blanket into the dog’s face as he began nuzzling against Sherlock’s side. “Can he sleep with us too, Mikey?” Sherlock let go of Mycroft’s hand and used that hand to hold his blanket, so it freed up his dominant hand to scrub at Redbeard’s ear as they walked quietly back to Mycroft’s room. 

“On the floor, yes.” Mycroft nodded, peering over his shoulder to ensure they hadn’t disturbed their parents as they walked into his room. He pushed his bedroom door closed, clicking it shut firmly in the jamb without making too much noise, and guided Sherlock over to his bed. He lifted Sherlock under the armpits and planted him into his bed. “Stay down,” he instructed the dog, who obediently curled up on the floor right beside Sherlock. “Feeling okay now?” Mycroft checked as he climbed back into his bed, sharing the pillow with his brother. 

“You’ll leave the light on?” Sherlock checked. 

Mycroft nodded. “If you want.” 

“I’m okay, then.” Sherlock nodded his head, his curls rustling against the pillow case. “My tummy feels a bit better.” 

Mycroft smiled at him and pulled the duvet up across them both, letting Sherlock push his arms out over the top - not wanting the child to overhead and vomit again. “Good. Go to sleep; you’ll feel better in the morning.” 

Sherlock screwed his eyes closed as he turned onto his side, facing Mycroft, and drew his hand up to his face with the blanket tucked up in it, smoothing the soft material across his cheek whilst his fingers moved across the slick tag on the corner of the stitching. It took less than five minutes for Sherlock to settle, stop wriggling his feet and begin sucking softly against his tongue as he fell into a light, then deeper sleep. And the whole time, Mycroft waited, making sure Sherlock was settled before he let himself relax. He turned his back to his brother, not minding that Sherlock’s knees were pressed into his back, and closed his eyes. He drifted off lightly, aware of Sherlock for the rest of the night but resting enough to have considered it an adequate sleep.


End file.
